The Joker and the Thief
The Joker and the Thief is a Dragon Ball fan-fiction created by WaffleMinifigure, focusing on Yamcha during the period following the Cell Games. Some Way Outta Here He drank. The Orchid slid down his throat like oil and surely matched it in ignitable nature. The bar, Shirley’s, was an old and creaky thing, with little in the way for decoration besides a large mirror, which hid behind the barman and a number of liquors. Despite the destitution of the location, it was absolutely packed, even at this time of night, drowned end to end with all sorts of city folk and out-of-towners. In the middle of the numerous stools sat a man, unlike the rest. He was dressed plainly, in a yellow jacket and baseball cap, but any observer would say something haunted his eyes. The man could see some creep, half-obscured by a bottle of bourbon, staring back at him through the mirror. His eyes pierced into their opposites, trying to forget what they reminded him of. Puar sat on Yamcha’s shoulders, watching him empty the brightly-colored liquid from its glass, desperately trying to hide the disapproval. “Another Orchid,” Yamcha said, placing the glass down deliberately. He fidgeted through his yellow jacket’s pockets and tossed a wad of bills at the business’s proprietor, not even turning his head to look. The fellow, Shirley himself, managed to catch it and fingered through the bills, counting them. Puar looked at him disapprovingly, but the Yamcha paid no mind. “You know, bud, you’re only supposed to have one of those,” the barkeep said, ruffling through the disappearing hairs on his head, weighing the bills in hand. “And you didn't seem judgmental, but we’ve all been proven wrong tonight,” Yamcha stated, turning his head to stare down the bartender. Shirley frowned, before getting to work fixing Yamcha another drink. “Can we go?” Puar squeaked, tugging at Yamcha’s shoulder. He grabbed at the Z Fighter with half-extended claws, to prod and not scratch. “In a bit,” he said, absentmindedly, rapt in the action of swirling his finger around the empty glass. The condensation made a soft creak as he began, but it slowly began to silence as the water dripped away. The bartender placed down another Orchid, which Yamcha took in hand. "You're in my seat," a husky voice to Yamcha's left said, chucking words over the commotion. The martial artist didn't glance over, chugging down his second Orchid. “Hey, pal!” The voice spat, which finally caused Yamcha to glance in that direction instead of his glass. The fellow was wide and short, with the sides of a gaudy pink haircut shaved clean off, leaving only a mohawk greasily pointing towards the heavens. His head was more like a pineapple than a head shape and something about his general look disgusted Yamcha. The once bandit, baseball player, and martial artist spat right back, “I don’t see your name on it.” “Look closer, buddy,” The fellow pointed to a spot on the stool beneath Yamcha, on which was carved the letters B-O-B. “‘Fraid I can’t read,” Yamcha stated, tapping the bar for another drink, hoping to grab Shirley’s attention over the crowd of people. Puar hovered behind Yamcha, metaphorical brows furrowed while squeaking out a sentence “Maybe we should go,” the cat said, to the apparent confusion of Bob. “Later,” Yamcha’s voice strengthened, seemingly resolute. His knuckles knocked on the hardwood in front of him, still trying to draw the attention of the bartender. “Listen to your cat, friend,” Bob said, a lot less certain after witnessing a floating animal talk, but, then again, the King was a dog, so he understood the situation rather quickly. “How about you don’t tell me what to do, Bob?” “So you can read the name, huh,” he said, placing his hand on the wooden countertop. “What a surprise. I didn't know desert trash-” There were two sounds heard, after the phrase “desert trash”: a great and sickening cracking and something crashing and snapping through a hardwood floor. Within a second, Bob was on the ground and Yamcha’s fist, already balled up, was soaked in blood. The cacophony of the bar stopped and, collectively, the crowd slowly turned to look at the disruption. The last word Yamcha said was “huh”, as Puar, shapeshifted into a tall and well-muscled man, dragged Yamcha through the crowd and into the street. Puar pushed past the crowd of the late night and early morning streets of West City. They moved past the line outside into a side street, where Yamcha's hovercar, the old Silverstar-4, was parked. "Can I have your keys?" Puar squeaked, still in the body of some gang tough. Yamcha chuckled at the contrast, while Puar began to tap his feet. The shapeshifter cleared his throat, "Yamcha?" "You don't have a license, little buddy," Yamcha said, smiling, as he shook the blood off one hand and searched through his pockets with the other. For some reason, he was unable to find his wallet and keys. "Sure, I do," Puar said, suddenly grinning with Yamcha's face, holding up a driver's license and a ring of keys. The grin fell from Yamcha's face as he looked at the reflection in front of him. Almost perfect, but something itched at him, reminding him of something he didn't want to be reminded of. "That's not cool, Puar, give them back," Yamcha said, grasping at the two objects, but Puar pulled them back just in time. "Nuh-uh. If you can't notice me pick-pocketing you, you're too drunk to drive," Puar said, hopping over into the convertible and finagling with the ignition. After a few moments of awkward clicking and half-roars, the car started, and Puar jumped in the front seat. "Are you coming?" "Sure," Yamcha muttered, half-ambling and half-hovering towards the passenger door. He yanked it open with his left hand, shaking out the other, which was still somewhat bloody. He tumbled in, closing the door behind him. The hovercar screamed into the air and out of the side street, jolting the dreary Yamcha fully awake and nearly decapitating a passerby. Puar, not wanting to be doing what he was doing and genuinely trying his best, tried to calm down the finicky beast he now piloted. The hovercar turned onto the main street and careened away. Yamcha, initially startled, watched the sidewalks as the wind whipped through his short hair. He wondered where his baseball cap went. "Let's go home, Yamcha," Puar said, focusing intently on driving. "No scar." "What?" The shapeshifter turned away from the road. "You don't have the scars," Yamcha said, tapping on the distinctive marks on his face. "Oh," Puar said, quickly correcting the mistake while trying to avoid crashing into the few pedestrians they passed by. "Take a left here." "What? We moved, Yamcha. We don't live th-" "I know. Take a left," Yamcha's voice was resolute, obviously acting on something that he had been considering for quite a time. Puar did as told. After a few more turns and Puar's half-whispered concerns, the hovercar slowed and lowered to a familiar locale, with a familiar address: WST 3338926 K. The Capsule Corporation was massive. Bulma and Dr. Brief had obviously made some additions recently, to the security system. Everyone in the group had gotten security of some sort, recently, even though the threats they usually faced wouldn't be stopped by a few extra lasers or alarms. The thought helped, though, especially with Goku buried. "Yamcha," Puar pleaded, but the thief was already outside of Silverstar, slowly and steadily walking towards the building. Puar, sighing, transformed back into his preferred form and followed his partner. Yamcha snuck past the ground-based motion detectors by hovering and, with a slight bit of ki, carved through the glass of his friend, ex-girlfriend, and ex-roommate's basement window. He wondered if she'd mind. Whose Shirts You Wear Yamcha breathed in the recycled air. For a scant moment, the constant dullness in the air that had surrounded Yamcha for these past few months dissipated. It was dimly lit in the Capsule Corporation, barely revealing the hallways before him. His arms were goosebumped by the air conditioning, making the Z-Fighter regret leaving his jacket in the car. There were memories, in this place, with details Yamcha could not place, but he still felt their emotions, warm and sourly sweet, reverberating through his chest. He had stepped through this hallway a thousand times. This, not his birthplace or the desert or his apartment, was his home. It was a mirror of how he had left it in all but the smallest details. Those small details, of course, were enough to snap the once-bandit back into reality, into the felony he was now committing, and into the drear. Puar hovered next to him. Yamcha wasn’t quite sure when he had arrived, nor how long he had stood there. “What are we doing here?” Puar whispered, his voice softly echoing in the basement. “Gathering supplies,” Yamcha answered, half-truthfully. He, still hovering, moved to the first door on his right. It automatically opened, something that likely set off an alarm. Yamcha didn’t particularly care, he now realized. At least, that’s how he could easily be seen as and how he preferred to see himself as. In fact, Yamcha cared immensely, being trapped between those two piercing sorts of anxiety: the one in which you could not stop moving and the other in which you were paralyzed. The two, in a very particular way, evened out. Yamcha, closely followed by his animal companion, hovered into the storage room, only to find a different room. The rows of capsules and cases was instead a small closet, with a washer and dryer tucked into the corner. This difference wrenched an old feeling from Yamcha’s gut, something sickly sweet and still bitter. Had it always been like that and he simply forgot? Had they changed it after he had left? The air felt cooler than the hallway and his breath felt hotter. “Oh,” he said, softly enough that even Puar could not hear. There were a number of clothes: suits, dresses, Saiyan armor, and one pink button-up that struck Yamcha immediately. That was his. Without thinking, he floated towards it and grabbed. It may have not been a great-looking shirt, but that undeniable warmth that haunted it was Bulma’s. She had gotten him that stupid, wonderful shirt all those years ago, right before the 22nd World Martial Arts Tournament. Bulma had told the tailor to write “Bat Man” (she didn’t really get baseball), but the man had misheard her and written “BADMAN”. “Yamcha?” Puar said, and Yamcha realized he had been standing there for a while. “What?” “What are we doing here?” Puar repeated. Yamcha stood there for a second, taking it all in. It had been over half a year since he stood in this room. Before Cell and the Androids, it seemed like things would go alright. They knew the Androids were coming, but they’d fought off worse. He almost laughed at how naïve he used to be. “Yamcha?” “I need some stuff.” “The shirt?” “Not this,” he said, as he threw the button-up over himself. Yamcha floated out of the room, Puar following, to the actual storage room, next door. Yamcha, as he had with the laundry room, pushed it open. It was a massive storage room, unnaturally large. There were rows upon rows of capsules, of a thousand different colors and a thousand different purposes. This wasn’t just Bulma’s home, it was the headquarters of the largest corporation in history. When he’d first seen the storage room, he stood in the same spot he was now floating, silently gawking at the sight. He’d never seen anything near it, back in the desert. Yamcha floated over to the fifteenth row and searched its shelves for the teal number four capsule, which he found, after a couple eye-squinting minutes. After that, he flew to the food row and grabbed a number of capsules, each enough for around nine months of travel. “There we go,” he whispered, to Puar. “That’s all we need.” Puar nodded. “Can we go now?” “Sure,” Yamcha said, beginning to float out, as he heard the light click on. His eyes flew over to the doorway. It was Bulma. "Hey," she said, hoarse, as if she was sick. "Hey," he said, suddenly aware of the silence that had now disappeared. "Taking the shirt?" Yamcha looked down at what he was wearing, having forgotten he had grabbed it. "Yeah." Bulma looked through him for a moment. There was something in her eyes, a look that she couldn't say. She slowly turned away and spoke over her shoulder, "Alright. Bring it back," she said, "And Yamcha, if you need anything, just tell me." She walked away, back to the darkened hallway, back to her husband, and back to her life. Bulma's words echoed through the now-bright room. Yamcha floated for a moment before coming back to the ground beneath him. It was grimy, unwashed. The cleaning bots hadn't been here in a while. Yamcha just stood there, musing upon what had gotten him here. Puar interrupted his thoughts, "Why are we doing this, Yamcha?" He paused for a moment. Yamcha couldn't answer. Instead, he just meandered out of the room, through the hallway, and crawled out of the window he came into. Yamcha clambered onto the dew-stained grass, feeling it squish beneath him. The security system wasn't on, he realized, finally. The first thing he saw was the stars, white and glittery in the great black void above. How many of them were empty? How many of them were already gone? Yamcha, like the abyss above him for miles and miles, felt dull and lifeless. His breaths felt heavier than they had a year ago. What was different? Well, plenty, he thought. There was nobody on the streets, just him, Puar, and the streetlights, flickering awake even at this time of night. The cold predawn air blew through his short hair and some stubble growing on his face. It flew through the holes in his pink shirt and made it flutter and wave. "Puar," he said, "do you ever regret coming with me, back in the desert?" "No," Puar jumped to say, immediately and without pause. All Yamcha could do in response was smirk a weak smirk. "Do you ever wonder what would've happened if we hadn't?" "Not really," the pseudo-cat supplied. The smirk on Yamcha's face diminished, as a twinge of guilt rose within him. He wanted to say so much but couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he wandered back to the car and the cat, like he had so many times before, followed. Isn't It A Pity Some soft acoustic noise played across the radio and Yamcha could feel the wind whipping through his hair. Really, he should have been flying right now, but Puar driving gave him a sense of calm. It was wonderful to be able to relax for a second, to slow down and let the world go by him, for a change. To let someone else drive. It wasn't dawn, yet, and Yamcha still thought he would have a few more hours. He looked to his right, glancing at the face beside him. This time, Puar was Krillin's old girlfriend, the blonde one who Yamcha could never remember the name of. He supposed that most of them were blonde. Krillin had a type, except for that one which looked weirdly like Bulma. Even as he looked into the pretty face of the girl next to him, he knew it was Puar. He could see straight through the shapeshifting and into those fearful eyes. They seemed so scared, nowadays. Yamcha wondered what they were scared of. Before he could think on it, the smell of salt and fish began to pour into his nostrils and he realized that they were above water, finally. "How far are we?" Yamcha said, snapping himself out of his thoughts. "A couple klicks," Puar said, "Why are we going here anyways?" "To pick up some stuff." "You keep saying that. Sure, but why?" Puar said, and Yamcha still wasn't sure what to say. Could he lie to him any more than he had? "It doesn't matter," Yamcha finally said. He could feel his gut wrench at all these false things. All Puar did was flick his eyes towards Yamcha and back towards the horizon. They sat there in silence for a couple minutes. The hovercar whirred and sputtered, fluttering the waves around them into a great V. After a few minutes, he finally saw it. "There," he said, pointing at the small house on the horizon, barely visible in the small dark hours of the morning. "Huh," Puar said, taking it in. It'd been a while since they looked at it, especially at night. But there it was, Kame House. Yamcha could smell the sea winds and saw the moonlight glitter off of the waves, yet all he could think about was how lonely that house looked, like it was tossed here by a distant typhoon. The car landed on the house's beach lawn, dusting itself and the house with thousands of grains of sand. Yamcha hopped out, careful not to wake Turtle, who was asleep by one of the palm trees. If he was lucky, Roshi would be too. "Stay here," he said, and Puar listened. Yamcha darted over to the door, careful to quiet its oncoming squeak. As he opened it, he found his quest for naught. The light from the TV, muffled in the curtains of the windows, pushed its way through the door. He knew Roshi was awake and so pulled the door fully open. Master Roshi was on the couch in the main room of Kame House, buried in the light of the television and dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and boxers. Roshi turned, his tiny eyes straining to look at whoever was there. For a moment, Yamcha could have sworn to see bursts of ki rising up around the old master. “Yamcha?” Roshi said, snatching up and putting on a pair of sunglasses in one swift move. “Heyyy,” Yamcha said, his eyes suddenly heavy. “How are you, Master Roshi?” “What are you doing here, Yamcha?” he said, rising to meet him, “I mean, uh, why are you here?” “I got an apartment!” he said, rather quietly for an exclamation. Roshi seemed to consider this for a moment, mumbling something or other. Yamcha knew the information was well too late and too well-known, a terrible cover all around. The master stopped talking for a second, looking around at the room he had orchestrated. Yamcha mimicked the motion, glancing at the piles of clothes, tapes, tissues, and that same dirty video playing on the TV, always muted, but this time paused. He wondered if the two of them saw the same things there. Does he see the trash?, he thought, Can he not? “It’s been a while since you’ve worn that shirt,” he said, breaking the silence while not looking at him. “Yeah.” They paused for a moment, looking at each other without much to say. “You know, Yamcha, “ Roshi said, “You could’ve been the best of them. If I had gotten you a little earlier…” Roshi never filled the silence. “Thanks,” was all Yamcha could say, as if what he said didn’t sting more than anything he could have said in the world. What if. “Sorry,” Roshi said, turning towards Yamcha again, “What I’m trying to say, is that if you need something, don’t wait to ask, okay?” “Oh,” Yamcha said, “You know how I brought a box of stuff with me, when I first trained with you?” Roshi looked through him, his brow furrowed. Yamcha noticed he was wearing a Taitans shirt, just above the striped boxers. “Sure,” Roshi said. “Can I have it?” “Oh,” he said, “Yeah.” Roshi paused the flick (which Yamcha noticed was already paused, thereby causing Roshi to turn it back on (still as quiet)) and wandered up the stairs, leaving Yamcha alone. He left him there, just leaving him to look around the scrum around him. How can he live like this? It took Roshi a minute to come back out, but Yamcha filled the time with thoughts of regret. I shouldn't have started this. Roshi came back with a box, taken from some department store, probably used for one of his shirts a long time ago. He looked at it with some reverence, before handing it over to Yamcha. "Here." Yamcha took it. He couldn't say anything, just looking at the black box without opening. There it was. The past in my hands. ''It was heavier than he remembered. "Thanks," he said, tucking it under his arm. "Always," Roshi said, with a sad smile on his face. They stood there for a bit, not really looking at anything. "I should go." "Right, right," he said, as if he'd been snapped out of trance. He guided Yamcha to the still open door and pulled it a little more for the Z-Fighter. "Yamcha," Roshi's voice wavered, "If you ever need anything from me, please ask. Anything." Yamcha couldn't see them, but he knew Roshi's eyes were sad. He could see the brows crunch and the mouth frown. Yamcha took one last glance at Kame House, discordant and wild, as if it had been abandoned, and he looked at Roshi, the stained Taitans shirt and the half-broken glasses, as if it was the first time he'd seen them. "Same for you, Master." The two of them looked at each other for a bit, before Roshi closed the door. Yamcha wondered if Roshi was thinking the same thing: ''Is this the last time I see you? For a while, he just stared at it, but Puar's voice made him turn. "How'd it go?" Puar squeaked, back to his normal form. "Well," Yamcha said, but he never finished his sentence. "Okay, where next?" Just the words stabbed straight through him, as did the thought of what he had to do next. Yamcha wouldn't have to lie anymore, at least, but telling the truth was ten times harder. Most of him hated the idea, in the back of his head, to not tell Puar sooner, and hated himself for thinking of it. But as he continued the con, he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't bring himself to tell the truth to his best (and, once, only) friend. "We're not," he said, as if that was explanation enough. It wasn't. Puar hovered out of the driver's seat of the hovercar, which now slowly dropped to the ground and stopped its mechanical whirr. "What do you mean, Yamcha?" Yamcha said it quickly, so Puar couldn't interrupt. "I'm going away, for a while, Puar. I'm just gonna go off into space with one of Capsule Corps's ships and I'm just gonna be there. Alright?" He absolutely knew it wasn't alright. Puar looked flabbergasted. Absolutely, utterly, and completely confused, as if something completely unexplainable had just occurred in front of them. And, in a way, it had. "For how long?" "A year," Yamcha lied again, and he wasn't quite sure to whom. Himself or the world? "A YEAR?!" Puar yelled, suddenly way too close, despite being feet away. "Yeah." The two of them stood and hovered there for a second. For the first time in a while, the two of them were face to face, looking at each other in the eyes. Yamcha found it suddenly a lot harder to lie. Puar looked straight into him and he desperately wished that the cat didn't see much. He desperately wished that Puar wouldn't look into him and finally see everything he was and leave him and let him live with himself, for that was the worst thing that Yamcha could even imagine. He desperately wanted the lie he had presented to the world, for weeks, months, or maybe goddamn years to remain in place, please, and not keep slipping, slipping, slipping like it had for these past few half-drunken, half-coordinated hours. Yamcha saw himself standing on a pane of glass in a sea of thousands of other panes of glass but his was different, for his was slipping, like the rest of this, out of its place and falling into that great black void below and he couldn't fly or stop it and all he could do was beg that it wouldn't fall, not today, not today. As they looked at each other for what must have been either the thirtieth year or the thirtieth second, Yamcha was relieved and horrified all at once, for he knew Puar must have seen right through him. But he didn't. "Alright," Puar said, and went to the hovercar and drove-flew away. Then he was gone, disappearing to the west. Yamcha just stood there, looking at the spot where Puar was, not even turning to look at the car vanishing into the black horizon. And he saw the sunrise, great bright stripes of gold and yellow and orange and red, autumn in a painting, but all he could do was think about what had been there moments before. In A Town Without A Name, In A Heavy Downpour The thing, the great bright white orb that Yamcha now sat inside was now nearing space proper. He supposed the sound of the ignition, like a great foom, would have woken Turtle up for real, this time. Yamcha, as he was about to enter space for what seemed to be the first time, could only consider a particularly annoying fly that had somehow snuck into the capsule and the box, black cardboard, that now weighed heavy on his hands. It was his and not-his, for he hadn't owned it, in the proper sense of owning something, for the past ten to twenty years. There was a familiarity and strangeness all at once. It was like opening a particularly old book; you had been there and you knew the place, but everything was so fresh and new and still so intimidating. It was like returning home. Yamcha already knew how treacherous such a journey could be. What stung the second-most were the occasional glances to the pseudo-glass panes between him and the abyss of space. Not for the terrifying emptiness of space (that was third or fourth, in a dead-heat with the goddamn fly), but the reflection of his face, with the short hair and the scar which didn't show up in the reflection. He saw that fucking face. He saw the face that wasn't only his. Yamcha saw home again. That was what compelled him to open the box, to finally look at what had felt so heavy. He tossed the cardboard and the clothes until it was revealed, the thing, still as shiny as the day he had left it here. The sight of the Azure Dragon Sword was all that it took to throw him back to his memory, to the place he had been born. It had been the first storm in a couple months, that night. He knew that, for the dust was still fresh in the air and the smell of it still lingered. He could even smell it now, up in the atmosphere. Whenever he thought of home, he smelled it. Is it still there now?, he wondered. The pitter patter of rain still pushed its way into his ears. It was night, then, and his father was drunk. Yamcha could've said that about every night. "Yamcha!" The yelling, decades old by now, still made him wince. Yamcha couldn't have been more than thirteen. Probably twelve, barely a boy. That hadn't deterred him from attempting to escape out the back door, his father's sword on his waist. Yamcha had turned brave, that night. All the bravery in the world hadn't helped when his father struck him across the face. This one was harder than the other numerous strikes, it had malice, hatred in the knuckles. Genuine fury towards a twelve-year old boy. It drew blood, he knew that, but he wasn't sure if the first hit had cut just above the eye or the nose, first. In any case, the second one succeeded where the first had failed and the third completed the instruction. "How dare you!" his father had said, if Yamcha had been the aggressor. Back then, Yamcha agreed that he had. How dare he try to run, his mind told him, but that hadn't stopped Yamcha. The sin invigorated him, instead, because he was in control for once. Yamcha had drawn the blade, struck to the ground by his father's second blow, and pointed it at him, like he'd seen his father do a dozen times. Yamcha could see it, the mask of pure rage that covered his father's face, the mask that looked all too like Yamcha now, sans the scar. He could see the dripping ceiling, too, unable to handle the downpour, and the sword glittering in the dim. Yamcha held it in his hands now, in the orb, suddenly feeling older, for he was. He stood and mimicked the motion he had made back then, refined and bettered by half-a-decade of crime. The sword wasn’t heavy, now, but perfectly weighed. It felt right. He looked back to where he was, when he finally got back to his feet and rooted for himself when the boy did not let the point fall, despite how much he shook. He did not then, could not, for he knew what could happen if he didn't. It was a moment of pride, despite how much he hated his drunk father for forcing him to do this. How much he hated what his father, once a proud and strong man, had become. How much he hated what he was becoming now. He couldn't remember what his father had said then, but he knew the feeling. Fury, confusion, and just a hint of fear. That let young Yamcha continue, despite how scared he was. It's what let him back away and run, with only the clothes on his back and what was his sword, now. Just the hint of fear in his father proved that he was'' human'', and that was all that he needed. He was never sure if his father had followed him, but that didn't stop him from running until he couldn't anymore. Running like his life depended on it and he knew that it might. It let him run and fight and steal to survive, for taking that sword was his first theft. It was far from his last. Yamcha pirouetted the sword between his hands, then tossed it from hand to hand like a juggling ball. There was a relief in holding it again. It was like breathing for the first time in quite a while, like the muck which had choked him for months vanished. But then he saw his reflection in the polished steel, that face, and it all came rushing back. He felt ashamed for holding it, after he had given into the world and let others control his life. He felt ashamed, like he had given in. He felt ashamed of what he had done, back on Earth, how he had let himself talk to Roshi, Bulma, and Puar, the oldest friends he still had. While thinking of friends, he thought of Goku, and that had made the thoughts ten times worse. Yamcha put the sword away, letting himself sit down and not think of it any more. He noticed, now, as the thing shook and shook, that they (the fly and himself) were entering space. He sat there, holding on for dear life, as the ship wrenched itself from Earth's gravity, fleeing into the domain of no one. Yamcha suddenly realized how alone he was. Seldomly Doing Well Yamcha awoke, the light of the sun -- a sun -- beaming through the circular windows of the spacecraft. It traveled thousands of miles, landed on his face, and then pierced through his head like a dagger. He tried to roll over, only to find more reflections of the light and more daggers through his eyes. Yamcha's head hurt like it had been a comedian's watermelon, just smashed with a sledgehammer. If he looked closely enough, he could find a piece of it on the wall. He arose, stepping from the pull-down bed and onto the steel floor which lew beneath him. His feet strained against the hard metal, as he rubbed the gunk out of his eyes. Yamcha's head rang louder. He stumbled while trying to walk, as the floor seemed to shift under his feet. Yamcha didn't know how he didn't fall over, crack his head, and die right there. He probably wouldn't die from just falling over, he knew. But that didn't mean he didn't think about it. He wasn't quite sure how long the ship had been traveling, but it had to have been a while. He glanced out the window to see a landscape, one he didn't recognize. Apparently, they had landed. The world outside was bleak, dusty and bright. In a way, it was reassuring. In another, wholly unnerving. Maybe they were the same feeling, just rolled over and tangled in itself. Whatever he felt in his stomach, Yamcha took shaky steps on the titanium floor, feeling the blood rushing to his head. He threw on a jacket and some pants, nothing special, alongside that dumb pink shirt who couldn't bring himself to not wear. It smelled like home. Yamcha pushed a little button to the side of the door and a great fwoosh came next. The circular door pushed down into a row of steps, like one of those famous people private jets. He hadn't stepped from too many of those. Only once, when his baseball team competed for the national championship, and lost. That was what he had. His fine memory of luxury, followed closely by the sting of defeat. Yamcha couldn't stop himself from chuckling, guffawing to no one, at the absurdity of the situation. He had been so dumb, so brash, to get into a private spacecraft, that he stole, no less, and flee the entire world because he thought, just on an off-chance, that would bring him some closure. He'd breathe in the alien air and that feeling which had filled him for so many months would be gone. Yamcha would feel normal again, he thought. That was the plan. But when he stepped on those metal steps, barefoot on the steel, the air tasted the same as home. Everything still looked so gray, so colorless. And, just slightly, he could feel that glass pane slipping under his feet. "Plan B," he muttered. Yamcha, finally realizing what was happening, began to laugh. He laughed and laughed. Because who could have fucked it up better than him? Yamcha walked onto the dusty ground, hands in his jacket pockets, admiring the scenery. It was a desert. Oh, how he hated the sight of it. Home, he thought, the home I deserve. Yamcha just sat on the ground, not quite sure if he could hold his legs up anymore. He felt like he'd been up for a week, like his eyelids were fighting to push themselves down. Yamcha felt that feeling just above the gut, right around the solar plexus. It was a nauseating, painful feeling, like something was jabbing itself right there. "Fuck!" he yelled, unsure why, "Fuck." Yamcha sat there for a while. It was so hard to move, like there was a whole world on top of his shoulders. He knew, of course, that the world would never rely on him. He was Yamcha. He was the fuck-up, the guy who wasn't strong enough to beat an alien, when weeks before he'd just been playing baseball. That, the thought of his greatest failure, is when the great burrr of hoverbikes began to come close. They sounded like buzzards, with crow-like caws and the growling of cats. Buzzards was an apt description. The pair came into his vision within a minute, tearing across the desert like bats out of HFIL. Yamcha looked up. "Fuck," he said again, and laid his upper body on the ground, hoping they would just ignore him. He could feel their ki from here, like a campfire across the yard. It was a little heat, nothing he couldn't handle. He had faced worst just from Goku hiding his power level. He just closed his eyes and let the world pass him by. Eventually, the sound of the hoverbikes stopped and were replaced by the shuffling of feet on sand. "What's up, dork?" a voice squawked. Yamcha pulled one of his eyes open. There were two figures, weirdly shaped, somewhat avian. He could barely see them, silhouetted on the sun. He closed his eyes again. "Oh, we're not interesting enough for you, spaceman?" the other said, somehow sounding more like a bird than the other. "Nah," Yamcha said, "Just tired." That incorporeal feeling in the midst of his chest became a lot more real, as one of them kicked him in the chest. He coughed something up, opening his eyes to the pain. The one who kicked him was green and, with talons, had clawed up a piece of that damned pink shirt. "Get up," the first one who spoke said. His skin was as pink as a melon, Yamcha noticed, but there was a strange dry consistency to it. The avianoid looked like he'd been covered with a light chalking. Yamcha got up, floating to his feet. The two in front of him were dressed in strange armor, unlike Frieza's, just a number of different purple plates covering the torso and legs. The two wore brown cloaks around themselves, so Yamcha could only see their heads, each with a large beak and seemingly indistinguishable, save for the coloring. "So," Yamcha said, a fire rising around him, "Which one of you is firs-" He never got to answer the question, as the yellow one punched him in the face, and the other kicked him in the groin. He reeled back, only to find Pink behind him, spiking his spine down like a volleyball. He tried to turn, but then Yellow, suddenly flying, kicked him in the head. He felt himself fall to the ground. Every bone in his body, every lick of his ki, tried to keep him up, airborne, but still he fell. That feeling in his solar plexus, half-bitterness and the other half dull pain, came as strong as it ever had before. Of course he'd find a way to screw up a fight with a couple of mooks without getting a punch in. There isn't a worse feeling in the world than this, he thought. "Hey, Frammen," Yellow squealed, though he was a bird-creature and not a pig-one, "You want that shirt?" "No," Pink, apparently Frammen, said, shaking his head, "It looks awful. Like something I've puked up." Nevermind, Yamcha thought, suddenly even in more pain, There it is. "Is he still conscious?" Frammen asked, looking at Yamcha. "Well," Yellow said, wandering towards the Z-Fighter, "He won't be." Yamcha rolled to a crouched position, as Yellow tried to stomp through his chest. The next move came like an instinct, for it was. It was what was within him. Yamcha yelled, flying forward with all he could! He clawed across the Yellow, exposing purple scratch marks and carving through the flesh of the bird-man, as he felt the wolf rise inside him. But before he could finish the technique with the double-palm strike, he felt a great and terrible strike on the back of his head. Suddenly, he felt the hangover, but it stung worse, now, and he blinked black. Yamcha swerved his head around, though it was already spinning, to meet another blow from Frammen. He stumbled back, straight into Yellow, who pushed him forward. The last thing Yamcha saw before blacking out was a fist to his face. Kept In A Jar By The Door There was a pain he felt, deep down to the very spine. His head spun worse than it had when he drank the Orchids, but it was a close score. Everything stung. Yamcha was surrounded by bright light, he knew that. He also knew it was too bright, so he shut his eyes as soon as he opened them. Ow, he thought, and he meant it. There was a lot of pain in his body, through the joints and the nooks and the crannies. It felt like getting hit by a truck. And Yamcha knew, for he had been hit by a truck, before. "Wake up," a voice said, but Yamcha chose to groan instead of opening his eyes. "What day is it?" "I don't know, we're in space," the voice said again, a woman's, "How would I know?" Yamcha pushed his eyes open, blinking until the lights stopped burning. It took him a few moments, but he eventually figured out that he was in the spacecraft, with the weird spherical walls and the abundance of bright chrome objects. How did he get in here? The lady was dressed plainly and Yamcha couldn't place the face. He knew he had seen it somewhere before, but where? It hurt too much to think. All that really controlled what he said was his ego, what was left it. "How are you?" he said, with all the swagger he had left. It wasn't much. The inherent, if buried, fear he had of women seemed to disappear for a moment. A deep concussion had taken its place. "Slow down there," she said, all sultry-like, "Little buddy." Suddenly, her face turned into the man he had assaulted at the bar, Rob, if he recalled correctly. Yamcha gave a quick yelp, pushing himself further from the edge of the bed. "Puar?" he spat out, his brain finally working, "How did you get here?" "Oh, I snuck in," said Puar, transforming into his traditional cat form, "When you weren't looking, I turned into a fly and buzzed into the spaceship. I wasn't gonna let you do this alone." "Huh?" "Well, of course," Puar smiled, something that made feel Yamcha guilty all over again, "You're my friend, Yamcha." "Oh," Yamcha said, back to that drear which had lightened as he was up here. Well, it hadn't. He sure would like to pretend it had. Of course he would, Yamcha thought, ashamed that he had underestimated his friend. Suddenly, Puar slapped him across the face. "But you're an idiot!" Puar yelled, suddenly turned into Job, again. Yamcha's face stung. "Owwww!" he said, but slowly, for he was still barely coherent. "You can't just run off like that, okay?" Puar said, back into the cat form, and, if Yamcha didn't know better, he'd say the cat had started to tear up, "What the fuck's going on?" "I just," Yamcha paused, trying so hard to tell the truth, "I just wanted to get away from it all!" "Why?" Puar asked, a deep fury in that high-pitched tone. It was the type of rage, as most rage does, that came from fear, the lack of knowing. "I don't know!" lied Yamcha, "I don't know, okay? So, get off my case!" "Get off your case?" Puar yelled, finally letting Yamcha hear what he'd been holding in, "Get off YOUR case?! All of us were scared! Roshi, Krillin, Bulma, me, all of us! We were scared for you, Yamcha. What the fuck is actually happening? You plan this trip without telling a soul, you steal everything from Bulma so they won't find out and you don't even go over your numbers right!" "She wasn't supposed to catch us," Yamcha said, confused. "Not that," Puar said, "You say you're going off for a year and you pack three months worth of capsule rations? You could've died, Yamcha! You would've died!" Yamcha didn't respond. Instead, he stopped talking in a silence that made Puar go over his last few words. There was a drip somewhere. Drip, drip, drip. Had he left the sink on? he wondered, for but a moment, before the look came over Puar's face. Yamcha could feel that glass pane under him slipping, finally, from under his feet. He could feel it all come crashing down around him, these walls he had built a year ago. He could feel everything adding up. He looked down at his feet, too scared to look Puar in the eyes. Puar took in the oncoming silence and just stayed there, floating, for a little bit. "Yamcha," he asked, after oh so long, "Are you alright?" There it is, Yamcha thought, and he wondered if he could finally get it out. If the river had finally overcome the dam. "No," he said, "Not at all." "For how long?" Puar asked, scared. Yamcha considered the question. He realized he'd never really thought of the answer. "I'm not sure," said Yamcha, to his shapeshifting cat friend, "But it's been a while. Longer than half a year. It got worse when Goku stayed dead, you know? It got worse. But it was there beforehand. Maybe not as bad and maybe not as often, but it was there." The two of them stayed there for a second and Yamcha felt his eyes get hotter and hotter and he couldn't hold back the tears anymore. "Everything just doesn't seem as vibrant, you know?" Yamcha said, "Everything's out of the packaging, getting dirtier and dirtier and I'm falling deeper and deeper. I'm slipping, Puar. I know it. It's getting worse and worse, but I keep telling myself I can do it on my own when I can't. Everything's just falling apart. I hate it, Puar, and I can't stand it winning, but I hate myself more. I hate myself for hurting. I'm barely a Z-Fighter, now, you know?" he chuckled, his eyes getting wetter and wetter, "I'm just the guy you invite for parties. A fucking hanger-on. And I don't blame y-" "No, you're not," Puar said quickly, with a quivering voice, "I swear you're not. I'm scared, Yamcha, because I've never been more afraid than right now. I love you, Yamcha. I don't think I say that enough. You matter, okay? And I know I don't hurt as much as you do or as often as you do, but we all go through rough patches. We all go through these times where everything fucking sucks. And I know I haven't been at the level you're at, now, but I'm here for you. I know people just fucking say that but I'm here for you." "I get it," Yamcha said. "Not enough. We love you more than anything in this world," Puar said it like he was speaking truth to God, "I love you like a brother, Yamcha, because you are my brother and you fucking matter. Okay?" They looked at each other. Maybe the words weren't perfect, maybe they weren't right, either, but they meant something. And to Yamcha, right there and then, they meant everything in the universe to him. Yamcha grabbed him out of the air right then, embracing him and trying to ignore the wetness on his cheeks and the warmth in his eyes. "Okay," Yamcha said, and that was that. And The Wind Began To Howl A Piece Of The Continent __FORCETOC__ Category:Fan Fiction Category:Yamcha Category:WaffleMinifigure